Since nothing in our ken differentiates knowledge from luck, something beyond our ken is introduced to do so. But the conviction that we know something is small comfort when coupled with the realization that we cannot tell what.

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp, / My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp, / Where the real effigy of midnight hags, / With tawny smoked flesh and tatter'd rags, / Uncouth-brimm'd hat, and weather-beathen cloak, / 'Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, / Along the greensward uniformly pricks / Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks; […]

superfluous Purgaments and Excrements

[…] but seeing 'tis now evident and certain that my safety without her destruction, is in a more deplorate estate, I am most grievously affected […]